


Slide

by myystic (neoinean)



Category: White Collar
Genre: Backstory, F/M, Family Drama, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-15
Updated: 2010-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-13 05:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/133701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neoinean/pseuds/myystic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-series. How Neal saved Elizabeth’s marriage (without even trying).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cedara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cedara/gifts).



> Originally written for the Valentine's Day giftfic exchange. My prompt read as follows:
> 
>  _Elizabeth said something in what was probably the pilot ep that Neal's been her rival for the last seven years (and the Burkes are married for ten years). During further eps the viewer gets the impression that she gets told everything Neal related. I'm wondering how that happened. Ideally you'd tell me that story from her point of view, focusing how the Peter/Neal relationship developed._
> 
> Beta'ed by Dragonfly

There were certain things Elizabeth had expected when she committed herself to a serious relationship with an FBI agent. And for all the things she _hadn’t_ expected, most generally made sense in hindsight, or after Peter had explained them. For instance, she expected that there would be times when work would make Peter late for dates, or would force him to have to cancel them entirely. It was frustrating, but she understood, and Peter was nothing if not creative in finding ways to make it up to her.

She _hadn't_ expect Peter, that very first morning after in her apartment, to ask her who actually owned the building, but it was part of their rambling pre-coffee not-quite-conversation as they got dressed so she didn’t think anything of it. Until she came home two nights later to find the super installing new locks on all the doors, very expensive locks complete with an interior chain guard, and his shrugging explanation as he handed her a brand new set of keys (two for the door, two for the deadbolt) was that “some cop” had “lit a fire under Bokowski’s ass” and now he was spending lots of money to upgrade everything he owned.

It was another four days before she was able to confront Peter over that (because seriously, they’d only been together a month and change – he was nowhere close to having earned the right to act like a _helicopter parent_ , badge or no badge) but the honest, genuine concern in his voice when he proceeded to point out all the ways her neighbors were vulnerable to theft (or worse, but he didn’t say that – didn’t have to) ensured he was forgiven. (And then later, in the aftermath of apology sex (her to him, for doubting him, and then him to her for not telling her why he wanted the owner’s name), her snuggling in because she liked to and Peter cuddling right back like it was a new skill he was trying to learn through osmosis, she’d promised him she’d move as soon as her lease was up. He hadn’t actually asked, but the look on his face said how much he would have liked to and how very grateful he was that she spared him the chance to accidentally offend her again.)

This was what it was like, she’d told herself, when your boyfriend was an FBI agent. Broken dates and makeup sex and a man who would always put her safety above her feelings. His friends wore guns like hers wore accent scarves and when she’d said that she kept spare clips in the glovebox his immediate answer of “me too” had made absolutely zero sense until she’d looked – and then suddenly _it did_ , and she regretted having ever brought it up. He was uncomfortable in clubs because he couldn’t not spot all the likely drug deals (and the vice cops that were monitoring them) and there were certain restaurants he absolutely refused to patronize for reasons he could only hint at with a rather disturbing vagueness. He had questionable taste in suits but could tell her Coach bag was a mid-level knockoff from twenty paces, and he was more impressed with her industrial paper shredder than he was with the view from her office window. It was cute, it was quirky, it was _different_.

It was Peter.

And when her lease finally did expire, Peter’s shy, awkward, so lacking in pressure that it was flirting with _zero-g_ offer for her to move in with him had been too adorable to turn down. (Though in hindsight, she would always wonder just how much Peter had gotten her to agree to simply by inviting her to _put him out of his misery_ before he’d even finished asking.)

She could do worse, she’d told herself. Had done, back when she’d been younger, more foolish, the type of girl who wouldn’t have given a guy like Peter a chance. But Peter was sweet, and so very bad at hiding how very _over the moon_ he was for her. And Elizabeth liked being adored. Every woman could get used to being treated like a queen. Even when the king sometimes had to make the kingdom his first priority.

When moving day finally arrived, Elizabeth had no reason to expect that cohabitating with an FBI agent would be all that much different than simply dating one. Just that they’d see each other more often and she’d feel a lot safer coming home at night. And for the most part she’d been right. All the quirks and pitfalls of learning to live with another person were just that, and she’d have expected no less from Peter just because of his badge. He didn’t leave his clothes in heaps on the floor or three-week-old takeout in the fridge or the toilet seat up in the bathroom because he was an FBI agent, after all, and all things considered he was actually a lot neater than her last live-in boyfriend (though Elizabeth wasn’t about to tell him that). So what if he could spot the killer in a slasher film by the end of the first act and refused to watch procedural dramas without beer enough to dull the pain? He never spoiled the endings for her (if he could help it) and he was absurdly cute when he was buzzed and bitching about warrant law and chain of evidence. And these were things she had expected. All par for the course when you lived with a man in law enforcement.

And once they’d learned to live together – or rather, once she’d had him trained to put the lid down and to not leave his shoes in the middle of the floor and how to fold socks without stretching them all out of proportion; and in reverse, once she’d mostly gotten used to the late-night phone-calls and the crazy hours and how very little he was actually able to talk about his work – she’d figured that being married to an FBI agent wouldn’t change anything except for the notable alterations to their tax returns and the way she signed her name. And for the most part she’d been right.

At least for the first few years.

Elizabeth supposed it was predictable. Life wasn’t static; people didn’t live in a vacuum. Change, in concept, was as inevitable as time, but then “change” really wasn’t the word Elizabeth would use to describe what happened. “Progress” fit, except that it made everything sound planned, deliberate. “Evolution” fit better, except that it pulled the reverse, made them sound like passengers in their own lives. The reality, she figured, sat somewhere squarely between the two, and though she couldn’t quite name it, she could pinpoint the exact moment when it began.

The day she went back to school.

It made sense. Her whole career she’d only ever enjoyed her job. She didn’t love it as Peter did, and if before they’d met she’d thought that no one ever truly loved their jobs, well she’d had a few years to come to terms with how very wrong she’d been. She’d wanted to find a career she could be passionate about, and Peter, in one of those rare moments where he was actually as brilliant and insightful in his deductions about her as he was at solving crimes, had suggested event planning. She’d kissed him (for a start) and threw herself into the classes she’d need to make that dream come true. And if Peter was wonderfully supportive and encouraging and willing to pick up more of the household chores while she was busy working all day and then studying or attending classes all night, well. He still had to find some (quiet, housebound) way to pass the time while his wife was otherwise occupied.

That was when Peter first started bringing work home from the office.

Of course, the fact that he’d just been promoted and so had both the rank and the excuse to _justify_ bringing work home from the office hadn’t hurt, either.

And so they’d sit together spread out over the kitchen table, Elizabeth hitting the books while Peter pored through case notes. Sometimes they had music going in the background. Sometimes one of them was bouncing between the table and the stove (and sometimes that person (Peter) got so engrossed that the smoke alarms went off). Sometimes Elizabeth would find a grammatical error in one of the texts and either laugh or rant at the quality of the editing. Sometimes Peter would find some vital, missing clue that would tie a case together and he’d be half through an excitable narration on exactly how he’d done it before remembering that he wasn’t supposed to share the details of ongoing investigations.

If you’d asked her, when they were dating or when they were living together or even when they’d first got married, how she’d seen their lives heading over the next few years, that they’d get this wonderful, magical chance to _relive their college_ days together was probably the last thing she would have guessed. But that’s where Elizabeth had found herself, three years into her marriage to Peter. And she loved it – him – _them_ – more than she’d ever thought possible.

Months marched by, and then a year, and then two years and all of a sudden Elizabeth had her degree (small business management) and her contact list and her first, second, fifth, fifteenth, fiftieth client, and watching her events come together, between the venues and the catering and the decorations and the _whatever else_ that she’d had to arrange up front or last minute, pre-planned or on the fly – she’d finally started to feel as Peter did when he saw a case from start to finish. And he’d been so very happy for her, so very proud of all that she’d accomplished.

But poor Peter, he’d fallen into a pattern, a routine. Two years was more than enough time to cultivate a habit, and maybe all those extra hours spent working from home had paid big dividends back at the office, but he never stopped turning casework into homework, even when his study buddy had her evenings free again. And she supposed that was her fault. She should have put her foot down, once she’d seen where it was heading. Once she’d seen that he’d come home, kiss her on the cheek, and sit right down to the kitchen table with a briefcase full of files. She’d cook dinner, because she was almost always home before him so it just made sense that she should start something, and while they ate Peter was that wonderful, sweet, conscientious, adorably inept man she feel in love with, but when dinner was through he’d jump straight back into the work again and with an enthusiasm that just shouldn’t have been possible for someone who’d put in their full eight (nine, ten) hours at the office already.

Peter had always loved his job. Elizabeth still remembered what it was like to envy him that. She couldn’t bring herself to begrudge it.

And so he spent their evenings.

Her fault, because she kept telling herself that his work was important. Her fault, because she didn’t mind having control of the remote at night. Her fault, because she liked the idea of working late herself so that she would have an excuse to sleep in every morning. Except her work was on the computer in the den, and without her there, Peter’s cases slowly (slowly) blotted out her place at the table. And maybe she should have installed an alarm clock, because how else could it so often creep up on ten o’clock without either of them having eaten?

On the good nights, she reminded herself to order delivery.

But for all the rest, for all the nights when she only left the den to pee and to maybe steal some of Peter’s coffee from the pot on the counter, well then it was leftovers and TV dinners and all her Mauviel copper hanging on the wall, collecting dust.

And that was how she’d found herself, late one night. Too late when they both had to be up again in a few hours, but she’d stared at bouquets until her eyes were crossing and now she had an empty bladder and an empty mug and a hankering for French vanilla. She’d known that Peter was still up, figured that there was at least one cup left in Mr. Coffee, and actually planned on slinking into the kitchen and then back out again without so much as a hello.

The worst part was, as she’d padded in on slippered feet, the light in the hallway left deliberately dark behind her; as she set her mug down and opened the cabinet to fetch the faux flavored non-dairy creamer – because grabbing the real stuff from the fridge would draw too much attention – that it didn’t even occur to her that this wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. That this wasn’t the marriage she had signed up for (on the dotted line, sandwiched between the witness signatures and the date). No, it wasn’t until she’d slipped, nearly let her mug fall in a fit of overtired inattentiveness, caught it quickly but overcompensated, turned _just enough_ to catch sight of Peter across the way - because when the “oh shit” moment crystallized, all sharp lines and brutal clarity, she realized.

She had been avoiding him. Peter.

 _Her_ Peter.

And she didn’t even know why.

And now that she was there - now that she was there all full of _knowing_ \- Elizabeth forced herself to look, forced herself to see that which she’d worked so hard to miss. Forced herself to absorb the sight of Peter, standing braced against the table, tie loose and sleeves rolled up, jacket slung over the back of the chair.

Gun still in the holster at his shoulder.

It was a slap in the face, a bucket full of ice water sloshing down her spine. She’d known that they were slipping, hadn’t really seen how far they’d slipped already. But she saw it now, read it in the tension in his shoulders, in the exhaustion blurring his every line. She saw the sweat marks in his shirt, below his arms and in the center of his back, saw all the little rivulets his fingers had made as they scrubbed through his hair. Saw the gold of his wedding band winking at her in their crappy kitchen lighting. The weight of her own was suddenly heavy on her hand.

But then suddenly she’d lingered there too long, because now Peter’s back was tensing up. He must have felt her eyes upon him, that twitchy cop-sense that he got sometimes whenever there were people watching. He only half turned, just barely enough to meet her eye.

“El?” His voice was hesitant, unsure; as though he didn’t know why she was in the kitchen. This kitchen that once upon a time had been her home as much as his. And in his eyes, the question - why was she watching him? And the slow blossom of his concern, that little furrow between his brows that she could (still) read so well as he turned a bit more fully - he was asking after what was wrong. As though that was her reason for coming to the kitchen this late at night; as though he thought the only reason she might look to him was if she had a problem for him to fix.

Though the fact that she probably looked liked someone had _punched her in the gut_ didn't exactly help his misconceptions any.

How had they come to this? That her husband could come home without ever leaving work, could spread out over their table as though he’d never had to share it with anyone else, could do such a fantastic job at hiding how _lonely_ he was in his own home, that she would have to see it in stark shadows and sweat stains and the fact that it hadn’t even occurred to him check his weapon at the door.

“What are you working on?” she asked, so bright with false cheer that Peter all but flinched. Elizabeth grit her teeth, squared her shoulders, and shoved enough iron down her spine to hold until she’d closed the gap between them, until she’d wrapped her arms around him, until he’d overcome his surprise at the gesture (and she overcame her anguish at his surprise) and brought his own arms up, ever so slowly, like they swung from rusty hinges. His gun jabbed painfully at her right breast and he smelt of aftershave and too much coffee and his five o’clock shadow was a ten o’clock shade scraping rough against her cheek.

But he was still her Peter.

“C’mon. I’ve been vetting florists all night. If I have to see another nosegay – I swear, I’m stealing your gun and Mrs. Henderson’s flowerbeds will _never_ recover.”

He barked a laugh, sudden and sharp, the sound resonating through her chest as his body shook with the force of it. He sagged a bit in her arms, his head resting for just a moment more fully on top of hers.

“Peter, either I tell you everything you never wanted to know about June brides, or you tell me what’s in that file.”

That laugh dropped into a giggle – adorable, _adorable_ and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d made him sound like that, couldn’t remember the last time they’d--

A lot of things.

Those arms around her tightened, just a fraction, and then they shifted, slipped her body around his so that they were standing side by side, one arm slung atop her shoulder. The slide and press of his body against hers sparked a pit of warmth, deep in her belly, and all of a sudden her legs felt like lead.

It had been over a month since they’d made love. How the hell could she not have realized that until just now?

“So who am I looking at?” she asked, determined to be interested, determined to have an actual conversation with her husband for the first time in forever. Her fingers slid across the papers on the table, stopping close enough to his free hand that she could feel the warmth of it.

Then that hand was closing over hers, and he leaned in close, and like an insecure piano teacher he walked their conjoined fist across the mess of files until her fingers alighted on the corner of a small glossy, four-by-six. In joint effort they teased it out from beneath the papers that had covered it.

It was a surveillance photo, black and white and in poor focus. The subject was a man in profile, off center, walking across whatever street. Dark hair, fair skin, and a double-breasted suit.

Peter grinned, all sly sharp edges peeking through the warmth and welcoming. Elizabeth recognized that look, though she couldn’t recall the last time she’d seen it out of the bedroom (or the last time she’d seen it _in_ there, either).

The first time, she remembered clear as day, because they’d just been stopped for speeding on their way to her sister’s wedding. Peter in a tux and Elizabeth in her bridesmaid’s dress and they’d been doing 79 in a 65 and no, of course there was no such thing as quotas. And Peter had fingered his boutonnière, smoothed his jacket, slanted a look at her over a wink at that same smile – and rolled down his window to shove the full force of Agent Burke down the hapless trooper’s throat, _lying through his teeth_ the whole way through. They’d gotten out of a ticket and that poor cop couldn’t stumble back to his patrol car fast enough, such was the strength of Agent Burke's personality.

 _That_ was her Peter.

While he’d probably never outgrow the need to put her safety above her feelings, he also wouldn’t hesitate to put her feelings above his job, if ever the situation required it. And that little look there said that her Peter was about to break the rules.

“Meet Neal Caffrey.”

 

\-- _fin_ \--


End file.
